


This Is How You Remind Me

by kianspo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-31
Updated: 2011-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim invites Spock to his high school reunion for moral support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How You Remind Me

  
When Jim steps out of the shower in his unnecessarily luxurious suite in the officers’ guest quarters in San Francisco, he finds Spock waiting for him. The Vulcan is standing by the tall window, hands clasped customarily behind his back, as he stares at the city below. Jim smiles involuntarily at the sight, thinking that Spock’s reliability is nothing short of adorable.

“Right on time, Mr. Spock,” he teases, walking over toward his friend. “Thanks again for humoring me in this.”

“Captain.” Spock turns around, head tilted slightly to the side, a vaguely amused expression in his eyes. “It is my pleasure to accompany you.”

“Nice try, but we both know you have better things to do on shore leave. You’re only going to fulfill your and Bones’ cunning plan to keep an eye on me at all times, lest I find myself some trouble,” Jim says, grinning.

Spock’s eyebrow arches up eloquently. “This is somewhat... paranoid, is it not?”

Jim laughs. “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not after you.” He pats Spock’s shoulder. “Besides, it’s a high school reunion. Of course I’m paranoid.”

Spock frowns slightly. “I confess I am still not precisely clear on the nature of this event – or why it causes you to appear quite so... disquieted.”

“Oh, hell, Spock.” Jim sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. “It’s just a glorified get-together party, like I told you. Only, it’s not all that nice for some people; in fact, it could be rather daunting. I gotta tell you, I wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular back in the days. Half the school hated me and the other half was scared shitless of me. Either way, they loved nothing better but to kick my ass whenever they could.”

“Then why do you wish to go?”

“Because if I don’t go, they win, and I won’t let that happen if it kills me,” Jim declares vehemently.

“But is it not supposed to be a pleasant and positive experience?”

“Oh, it will be,” Jim promises darkly. “Now that I can hold my own.”

He glances up and sees Spock’s face carefully blank the way it usually gets when he tries to overcome his mounting confusion about something that can’t be easily equated away, labeled, and put into one category of ‘things that make sense’ or other. The sight makes Jim grin. He rests a hand on Spock’s arm and squeezes lightly. “You’ll get the idea once we get there.”

Spock simply inclines his head once, somehow managing to convey in one small motion that he isn’t quite convinced, but is willing to trust Jim’s judgment. Jim loves it to death when Spock does that.

“One thing, though,” Jim says, looking over Spock thoughtfully. “Could you do me another favor? Could you – change?”

Spock stiffens slightly. “Is there something wrong with my clothes?”

“No!” Jim hastens to refute. “No, not at all. It’s just that—”

He had warned Spock beforehand that he didn’t want to flash around in uniforms, since it wasn’t a formal occasion. Spock obviously remembered, because he’s wearing a traditional Vulcan outfit. Like all Vulcan clothes, it’s somewhat baggy, of some indistinct but depressing color that Jim hesitates to name, and it does Spock’s lean form no favors, managing to kill the natural glow of his skin in the process.

“Your clothes are perfectly fine,” Jim blurts out hurriedly, “but they’re sort of... you know. Still pretty formal.”

“I am uncertain if I am in possession of anything you might deem more... appropriate for the occasion,” Spock admits quietly.

He looks slightly baffled, if not outright discouraged, and Jim immediately feels bad. “Not a problem,” he says, making a grand gesture with his arms. “My wardrobe is your wardrobe. I’m pretty sure we can find something that’ll fit. You’re not that much slimmer than me.”

It hasn’t occurred to Jim that by saying this, he’d all but invite Spock to run a visual comparison while he’s wearing nothing but a towel.

“Um.” Jim turns around swiftly, all but running toward his closet in a desperate attempt to conceal his blush. He glances back over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, that is? Because it’s perfectly fine if you—”

“If it befits your plans better, I have no objections, Captain.”

“Um, sure.” Jim keys the doors open, trying to squash the pangs of guilt that attack him at Spock’s probably completely accidental phrasing. “Let’s see. Oh, and Spock? You think we can dispose of ranks for a night?”

“As you wish,” Spock replies demurely, coming to stand close behind Jim.

“Right,” Jim mutters. “Okay. Thanks.”

He has already thought about what he’d prefer to see Spock wear, but he makes a show of considering their options, rummaging through the clothes, while trying not to yield to the temptation to tug the towel around his hips tighter and cursing under his breath. This is exactly why he needs Spock on the ship – unlike him, Spock is an excellent planner. The infamous Kobayashi Maru was a prime example of Spock’s plainly supernatural capacity to _foresee everything_.

Well, hopefully, not everything, Jim thinks, as he pulls out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Otherwise, chances are good Jim finally will be strangled before the night is over.

“How about these?”

Spock accepts the clothes with no comment, lays them carefully on the bed, and immediately starts to undress. There’s no reason for him not to, Jim thinks, somewhat hysterically. They changed clothes in front of each other numerous times in the ship’s gym and on missions, and Spock has never shown so much as a hint of Victorian modesty, which, admittedly, would have been pretty damn ludicrous on a starship, let alone inconvenient. If anything, Jim was the one who usually felt mildly awkward, and, considering their respective natures, that was pretty much insane. He doesn’t know what it is about Spock that makes him feel so bashful when, under any other circumstances, Jim’s the next best thing to allergic to feeling self-conscious.

“Right,” he says intelligently, because Spock has toed off his boots and is busy unfastening his belt. “I’ll be, um... I’ll be a minute.” With that, Jim snatches his own clothes and makes a strategic retreat into the bathroom.

His fingers are numb and clumsy as he tugs his pants on, soft dark blue cotton wrinkling at the onslaught of his nerves. Naturally, because the universe really hates him, he has forgotten to grab some underwear, but he’s not going back out to retrieve it. The very image of him rushing past Spock to his drawer and then back is enough to make his face burn, and Jim only just resists the urge to bump his head against the nearest hard surface, because _what in the hell is wrong with him?_ He takes a few steadying breaths, ordering himself in no uncertain terms to get a fucking grip.

Equilibrium somewhat restored, Jim considers the thin light-blue pullover Uhura gave him last Christmas as some kind of ‘I-love-to-hate-you’ peace offering. Never one to deliberate for long, Jim decides to forgo the undershit and puts the thing on, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He sighs, staring at the rather low V-neck and the way the refined fabric is sort of poured onto him. He can say a lot of things about Uhura, but damn her, she has fine taste.

Grinning ruefully, Jim walks out of the bathroom to find another example of that truth waiting for him patiently by the bed. Biting his tongue hard enough to taste blood, Jim manages not to whistle.

He and Spock really are of a similar built, except Spock’s hips are narrower, so Jim’s stone-washed jeans hang dangerously low on them, whereas the t-shirt is stretched tighter across his slightly broader shoulders, looking for all intents and purposes as if it was painted on with a black brush.

Spock lifts an eyebrow at Jim’s prolonged scrutiny. “Am I now acceptable?”

“Yeah.” Jim swallows tightly and nods. “You’re perfect. I mean, you look – you look, um, casual enough. Some people tend to dress up for these things, and I just hate that. Shall we go?”

Spock doesn’t reply, but follows him obediently out the door. Jim notices that Spock is carrying himself much stiffer than usual, and his conscience raises its head once again, but Jim stomps on it. So what if Spock looks like a Risan dancer on his tea break? Jim’s other idea was to have them both wear their dress uniforms with all the chest candy in place – and between the two of them, they could probably open a candy shop – but he decided that it would be over the top in the end.

That same consideration led to them beaming to the Riverside Transport Central, instead of directly into the school gymnasium. Not that Jim wasn’t tempted to show up in a dazzling whirl of light, making everyone realize just how cool he was now, but Uhura’s lectures on how to make the right impression on any given audience seem to have finally sunken in.

“Would you care for a ride, Mr. Spock?” Jim turns toward his companion, grinning mischievously, as they step down from the transporter pad.

Spock’s eyebrows furrow slightly as he takes in the busy interior of the transport station. “I have every reason to believe that I will regret it,” he says. “However, this is, as you would put it, ‘your show.’”

Jim chuckles, resting a hand briefly on Spock’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

After a short conversation at the rental desk, Jim leads Spock out into the parking lot, searching for their bike. It’s not as cool a model as Jim used to own before he enlisted in Starfleet, but it looks speedy and aggressive, both of which suit him fine.

“You wouldn’t bitch about helmets, would you?” he asks Spock hopefully.

Spock wears a rather peculiar expression on his face that Jim can’t quite read. “I doubt this would be the most dangerous action I have taken at your urging,” he says, gazing at the bike pensively. “In addition, I trust you.”

Jim can barely stop himself from jumping him. “Spock, you’re – you’re – unbelievable.” Jim grins from ear to ear. “Let’s take this baby for a spin, shall we?”

It might have been his best idea ever, Jim thinks happily, because even the daunting prospect of meeting his old nemeses seems like a fair price to pay for the way Spock’s arms slide – without prompting – around Jim’s waist, as Spock settles behind him. For a moment, Jim feels like he can’t breathe, like his life, his very existence is so full right now that he’s bound to burst, because no one can take that much. With the wind singing in his ears, his heart pounding excitedly in his chest, and Spock pressed protectively and trustingly against his back, Jim almost feels like he’s flying.

He feels unbeatable.

The trip seems all too short, when Jim pulls reluctantly into his old school’s parking lot. He glances around at all the vehicles, noting a couple that stand out for being ridiculously overpriced. A slightly muffled sound of music is seeping from the open windows of the school building, and Jim shivers in the heated July air. The moment he turns the ignition off, his nervousness returns.

Spock must have sensed something, because while he has pulled away, he hasn’t climbed off the bike yet. Jim closes his eyes, as two warm, confident hands press lightly against his shoulders.

“We do not have to go,” Spock says softly. “This is obviously distressing for you.”

Jim shakes his head, leaning into the touch. Initiating physical contact is such a rare occurrence for Spock that Jim can’t help but savor it. “I’ll be fine.”

“I enjoyed the ride,” Spock tells him unexpectedly. “I would not be averse to prolonging it.”

This, Jim has to see. He twists around to look at Spock, who shows no inclination to move away, instead staring at Jim fixedly, eyes gleaming warmly like molten cinnamon, spicy and drawing in the angles-smothering evening light.

“Really?” Jim murmurs, a small, hopeful smile tugging persistently at the corner of his mouth.

He must be imagining the way Spock inches the tiniest bit closer. “Indeed, I—”

“Jimmy? Is that Jimmy Kirk?”

Jim jerks away from Spock abruptly, looking around. There’s a tiny, horribly yellow vehicle hovering above the ground two parking spaces to their left. Beside it, stands an equally tiny woman, with the same strawberry blond hair that Jim remembers and enormous glasses that obscure half her face.

“No way,” Jim mutters, sliding off the bike after Spock, who moves aside fluidly. “Is that Maggie Preston?”

“You bet, you overgrown mini-brain. Hey!” she yells as Jim scoops her, laughing, into his arms and off the ground. “Put me down this instant!”

“Oh, come on, you love me, _elf_child_55_ ,” he teases, even as he complies, careful to wait till she regains her balance on the ridiculously high heels she’s wearing.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” she grumbles, but she’s beaming at him. “It’s good to see you, Jim.”

“Spock.” Jim turns toward his friend, smiling. “Come meet Maggie, my wingman and confidante and probably the only friend I had in high school.” He loops an arm around Spock’s waist, pressing him forward slightly. “Maggie, this is Spock, my first officer.”

“Right!” Maggie chirps excitedly. “You’re a big important Starfleet captain now, Jimmy! Congrats with that, by the way.” Her huge green eyes, magnified to the extreme by the enormous glasses, turn to Spock. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She elbows Jim in the ribs without warning. “Is he single?” she hisses in a horrible stage whisper.

“No,” Jim replies instantly, just as Spock says, “Yes.”

They stare at each other. Maggie giggles. “I see. Well, enjoy the party, boys. Jimmy, you try not to kill anyone, okay? I’ll catch you later!” She whirls on her heel and hurries off inside.

Spock is still looking at him expectantly, and Jim sighs.

“I was saving you, okay?” he explains. “She seems nice, but she’s really crazy. You have no idea.”

Spock stares at him for a moment longer, then graciously changes the subject. “Are you truly anticipating engaging in acts of violence tonight?”

“What? No.” Jim snorts. “No, she was just kidding. Look, I got into a lot of fights here as a kid,” he adds, seeing clear suspicion in Spock’s gaze. “For a native son, I never really did fit in all that well.”

“Interesting,” Spock notes. “But not surprising.”

“What do you mean?” Jim asks quietly.

Spock peers at him, then at the tipsy-slack low building before them. “You are larger than this place,” Spock says simply, in that thoughtful, deep tone of his that Jim has come to associate with some profound revelations. “It is almost impossible to conceive that an establishment such as this would have hoped to contain you.”

Jim has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Thanks. I think.”

“Shall we go inside, Jim?”

It’s tempting, so tempting to just hop back onto the bike and ride away with Spock into the somewhat murky Iowan sunset...

Jim sighs and steels himself for what is to come. “Yep. Let’s go.”

Side by side, they enter the building and are immediately greeted by a makeshift banner that says: WELCOME HOME CLASS OF 2249. A hiccupping arrangement of blinking lights is stretched over the archway, sweating its ancient guts out to create a festive appearance.

Jim stares. Involuntarily, he thinks about the time he spent in one of the best night clubs on Risa that gave the phrase ‘dancing in the starlight’ a whole new meaning. He thinks about the Festival of Lights on Argellius. He asks himself if somewhere along the way – and he’s only been in space for two years – he has turned into an enormous snob or if the display really is pathetic. He chances a cautious glance at Spock, who stands beside him, taking in his surroundings quietly. A slight vertical line settles between his slanted eyebrows, and Jim grins.

“Problem, Mr. Spock?”

“This is a place of learning, is it not?” Spock asks, sounding puzzled. “Its purpose is to educate and develop intellectual capabilities?”

Jim snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far.” He shakes his head. “But yeah, it’s supposed to be that.”

“In that case, what is the meaning of these” – Spock fumbles for words, almost wincing, as he looks at the gloomy teal balloons and slightly withered tinsel hanging down from the ceiling – “decorations?”

Jim contemplates a lopsided and undeniably ugly paper lantern and sighs. “Well, they are here for the... mood, I guess.”

Spock glances at him sideways. “Is the mood supposed to be suicidal?”

Jim sputters. “Um, possibly.” He grabs Spock’s elbow and tugs him onward. “Come on. Registration is probably down there somewhere.”

There is indeed a similarly decorated desk around the corner manned by an elderly man who looks vaguely familiar.

“Hi,” Jim says, smiling his professional Captain Kirk smile as his eyes search through the display of badges on the desk.

“Name,” the man barks, squinting at Jim as if he can’t quite see him, and Jim recognizes the voice immediately.

“Principal Merrin?”

“Retired,” Merrin grumbles. “Who might you be?”

Jim straightens up, fighting back an upsurge of shock. “Jim Kirk.”

“Jim Kirk,” the man repeats monotonously as if trying to remember. Suddenly, his face lights up and he springs to his feet. “Jim Kirk! Of course! What an honor!” He grabs Jim’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “Of course, of course, captain, sir! Welcome home!”

“Um...” Jim drawls, stunned. “So you – you don’t remember suspending me for weeks at a time for fighting? Or calling the police when you thought I broke into the teachers’ room? Which I didn’t, by the way, but no one believed me?”

Merrin flushes a rather unattractive shade of scarlet. “Oh, Mr. Kirk, what nonsense. It was a long time ago. I mean, Captain Kirk, of course, Captain. I always thought you were a most promising young man – and just look how you lived up to my expectations.”

Jim stares at him, he can’t help it. “You thought – Principal, you told me I was ‘the lowest kind of scum to ever sully the steps of this school’.”

The man gapes at him, opening his mouth like a fish thrown out of water. “I never said that!” He refutes, sweating profusely, eyes going wild, hands shaking. “I couldn’t possibly... to a student... I never...”

Jim suddenly feels sorry for him. That wasn’t even the lousiest thing Merrin had ever said to him; that particular trophy was held by the time when the principal explained to him in detail what a staggering disappointment Jim had been for everyone and how he could never hope to measure up to his father. Jim hated him, hated him so much when he was a student here, because the words hurt, they stung and burned, because they rang so true at the time, no matter how unfair.

Jim looks at him now and sees nothing, but a frightened old man, who never did crawl out of his box, not once, and his box was smaller than most.

“Sorry,” Jim mutters. “My mistake. Thanks um... thanks for inviting me.”

“But of course.” The smile returns, if somewhat shakily, to Merrin’s face. “Such an honor. Let me find your badge.”

“Allow me,” Spock says, instantly locating a plastic badge with Jim’s name on the desk. “Captain, if you would.”

Jim turns toward him, and Spock pins the badge to his chest. “Yours does not have a photo. The others do.”

“Yeah, well.” Jim grimaces. “I never did stick around for school pictures. Not sure they would have shot me if I did turn up.”

Spock meets his eyes for a long luxurious moment and holds them until Jim recovers enough to pull out a smile. “Let’s hit it.”

He gives Spock a rather gloomy tour, not that there’s much to see. Most of Jim’s comments come back to: ‘And here’s where Gorbovsky punched me in the face because his girlfriend said I was cute’ and ‘They tripped me of these stairs when they found out I scored the highest in all the classes. Jesus. Look at that – how didn’t I break my neck?’

Spock frowns a lot, but mostly refrains from comments. His shoulder does brush against Jim’s a lot, and Jim feeds off this mute support gratefully. He knew this would be bad, but he didn’t think the trip would unleash that many ghosts. But Spock’s presence makes it kind of worth it, and Jim finds suddenly that he doesn’t mind retelling some really ugly episodes if it means Spock looking at him like that – like he wants to time-jump into Jim’s past and kill everyone.

Spock gets like this around him sometimes, never saying anything, just silently and meticulously obliterating a moderate Klingon squadron that dared to take Jim hostage for their amusement and refused to negotiate. Sometimes, on a cold night, Jim twists reality in his mind to better fit his secret yearnings, and then, for a few blessed moments, he believes that Spock is doing it for some other reason than Jim being his direct superior and a keeper of an impressive portion of classified information. Spock never really does say anything, and Jim – Jim can dream.

Except, then, Spock would go on flirting with a viciously beautiful Romulan commander (and Jim so doesn’t want to know exactly how far _that_ went), or geek out with some hotshot scientist, who entirely coincidentally happens to be a natural head-turner, to the point where Jim wants to aim a water cannon at them, and any delusions Jim might have been harboring would shatter with a bang.

“Vulcan schools were different,” Spock remarks, after, being the nerd that he is, he asked to look into an actual classroom. His expression turns infinitesimally darker. “Although perhaps not that different.”

And this is another thing, Jim thinks bitterly, this mystery. The way Spock always keeps to himself, making everyone around him, friends and foes alike, assume – always assume but never really know. Over the two and a half years that they’ve known each other, Jim only ever caught bits and pieces, stray glimpses and rare slips, and he’s pretty sure he’s the most knowledgeable with those crumbs. Jim knows Spock wasn’t born like this, knows that it must have been some rough conditioning. But he can’t help but wonder at times if he could ever make Spock open up to him the way Jim is laying himself bare now.

Well, almost.

They end up in the school gymnasium at last and take in the decorations. There’s a stage, a crude approximation of a bar, tables with some modest flowery arrangements on them, and the obligatory mirror ball twirling slowly under the ceiling. The music is a mix of ten-years-old hits that seemed bad enough at the time and, unlike vintage wines, haven’t gotten any better.

And there are people. Some sitting at the tables and chatting, some dancing, but they are everywhere. For a moment, Jim feels an onslaught of panic washing over him.

This school hated him. These people hated him. Not all of them, obviously, but enough to make him shudder right now at the memory. He has come here tonight to show them how wrong they were about him, how huge a mistake they had made when they labeled him an outcast and a loser. But he doesn’t know anymore if it was the right thing to do. He is no longer certain why he’s here.

They make their way through the room slowly, and people stare. At Jim; at Spock; at Jim and Spock. Reflexively, Jim straightens his back and pulls on a smile, the one that helped him bullshit his way through the Orion blockade on Pezta and convinced the Kapellans that attacking the Enterprise landing party was a very bad idea. Spock keeps close to him, looking around in a mixed impression of a bodyguard and a school kid on a field trip. The thought makes Jim actually smile for real.

No matter how ordinary his outfit, Spock stands out in this booze-slack, summer-cozy, loud crowd like an Arabian stallion amidst a farmyard, or a slick and dangerous battle cruiser in the chaotic brightness of a civilian port. Vaguely, Jim wonders if he is making the same impression or if the languid sweetness of the heartland air has done too thorough a job on him.

Suddenly, he’s stopped by some woman he doesn’t remember but who insists they used to be lab partners in the chemistry class and demands he signs a holo for her daughter. The moment he hands her back the stylus, he’s dragged into an impromptu holo shoot with the whole former cheerleading squad, and yes, here are a lot of familiar faces all right, but this is probably the first time they show how much they like him in public. Their hands haven’t become any shyer since, and, judging by the glares their husbands are sending Jim’s way, they haven’t become more subtle, either.

The moment he breaks free from them, he’s towed toward the bar by the ex-quarterback and his gang, who never quite got over the fact that Jim turned down the offer to join the team, but who is acting all friendly now, ordering a battery of shots and clapping Jim’s back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. This crowd is significantly harder to shake off, and when he finally manages, he feels ruffled and utterly bewildered.

Searching for Spock instinctively, Jim spots him sitting with Maggie at a far table they have commandeered for themselves, and that’s a relief if he ever felt one. He drops into a chair between them, feeling completely lost.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Maggie giggles. “Well, what did you expect, Jimmy? You’re the biggest celebrity this town has seen in thirty years. Of course you have about five thousand best friends here.”

“I didn’t realize this would happen,” Jim protests miserably.

“The burdens of success,” she drawls with mock sympathy, toasting him with her glass. “Oh hey, look. Here comes Brenda Sullivan, our self-appointed chairman of everything. Oh my God, she has a speech.”

Jim blinks, glancing over to the podium. He does remember Brenda and her lecturing streak that would put Bones to shame. Jim was one of her favorite targets when she was in her preaching mode, but at least he wasn’t the only one.

“Dear classmates, welcome home!” Brenda’s shrill voice slices through the hall. “It’s so wonderful to see you all!”

“Kill me now,” Maggie groans.

“Hard to believe that it’s been ten years, huh? But here we are, older and fatter, but not wiser! No, no, not the tiniest bit, are we, Marsha?” Brenda giggles and waves at her BFF.

“Is she drunk?” Jim asks curiously.

“I sure hope so,” Maggie says.

“We have some awards to give!” Brenda announces excitedly. “The first one is of course who traveled the farthest, and the Oscar goes to…” She giggles again, and sways slightly, catching herself against the podium. “Oops! Obviously, not the Oscar, but this very fancy banner goes to James T. Kirk!”

Jim should have expected this, but he really didn’t. He smiles tensely as everyone turns to look at him.

“Where is James T. Kirk?” Brenda demands. “Ah! There he is! Well, come up here, Jimmy, don’t be shy! The whole planet might know you as a galactic hero – which you are, they say – but we, your classmates, will always remember you as you were when you got stoned with the school nurse and were caught with your pants around your knees!”

There a few hesitant chuckles and some restrained applause, while Brenda calls out again, “Come here, come here!”

Jim’s face is burning, and he can’t see anything for the thick veil of humiliation. “Thanks, Brenda, I’m good,” he calls out finally, because not even at gunpoint would he go up there right now.

“Fine, I’ll give it to you later,” Brenda sings agreeably. “Next award! Who has more kids!”

“Jim,” Spock starts hesitantly.

Jim pushes away from the table, not looking at anyone. “I need some air. Excuse me.”

It’s dark outside. The sunset has burned out, stray echoes of it barely visible on the horizon. Jim has never been fond of this time, preferring either the blunt brightness of the day, or the pitch black darkness of the night. The murky world of twilight has never been his scene. He stands motionless for a few minutes, breathing in the soothing night air, before lowering himself down to sit on the slightly crumbling steps.

He doesn’t hear it so much as he simply feels the familiar presence fleshing out from the shadows behind him. Jim smiles, despite himself.

“Contrary to what you might have heard in there, Mr. Spock, I don’t bite.”

He doesn’t hear the sound of footsteps, but in a moment, Spock sits down beside him, brushing his shoulder.

“I thought perhaps you would wish to take part in the dancing contest.”

Jim snorts quietly, leaning briefly against Spock’s side. “Yeah, not really.”

They sit in silence for a while, before Spock prods gently. “Jim? The school nurse?”

Jim sighs. “It’s not pretty. He called me into his office and gave me something. Told me it was medicine. It was basically a roofie. My super smart classmates walked in, when he was trying to... you know. I was so out of it, I couldn’t explain anything.”

“Did you report him?” Spock asks, his tone grave.

Jim looks down at his feet. “No. I’m not sure they’d believe me, even if I did. I was the school freak, the school slut, you name it. No one ever believed me when I said I didn’t do it. After a certain point, I – stopped denying it. There was no use.”

“That does not sound like the James Kirk I know.”

Jim shakes his head. “Maybe you don’t know me half as well as you think.”

“Don’t I?” Spock asks softly. Jim looks up, finding Spock unexpectedly close. “Jim, I know you better than I think you know yourself. I may not know everything _about_ you. But I know _you_. These people” – Spock nods impatiently at the building behind them – “are imbeciles, not worthy even of your anger.” He purses his lips. “Although I must confess that I am currently experiencing the strongest temptation to set this structure on fire.”

Jim huffs out a surprised laugh. “You’d do that for me?”

Spock’s expression shifts imperceptibly, dark fury yielding place to something else entirely; something infinitely more powerful. “Jim, I find that there is precious little that I would not do for you. I thought you knew that.”

Jim’s breath catches in his throat at the soft reproach. “I guess I do,” he whispers incredulously. “Maybe?”

Mesmerized, he watches as Spock leans even closer, cups his face gently with his hand, tilting Jim’s chin up, and then they’re kissing.

Jim has never been kissed like this. The warm, tender slide of Spock’s lips is unbearably caring, worshipping really; he kisses like he has all the time in the world and wants to give all of it to Jim, as much as he can take and then some. Vaguely, Jim hears his own moan that escapes him as their tongues meet, and this is it, now Spock has done it, because there’s no way Jim’s ever letting go of him after that. His hand dives into Spock’s hair, pressing him even closer, and Spock responds by deepening the kiss fervently, to the point where Jim can do little but take it.

Suddenly it's too much. Jim tears his mouth away and gasps for air greedily. His fingers curl at the base of Spock’s neck, and Jim drops his head to Spock’s shoulder, breathing, living, just being. Spock’s arms come around him hesitantly, a warm circle of protective devotion that Jim can feel seeping through his skin to his very bones. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this high.

“I apologize if I was too forward,” Spock says quietly.

Jim growls, pressing a frantic kiss to Spock’s collarbone. “Don’t,” he orders. “Just don’t.”

Spock seems to relax a little at that, and they sit quietly for a while, just holding each other.

“I asked you to come here under false pretences,” Jim says finally.

Spock doesn’t seem the tiniest bit perturbed. “How so? You told me you required some ‘moral support,’ and I can certainly see why.”

“Well, yeah.” Jim smiles. “There is that. But mostly I just wanted them to see that I’m no longer that miserable fuck-up they remember. You and I were mistaken for a couple before, and I thought... Spock, I brought you here as a trophy. A prize I haven’t won.”

“I see.”

“Are you mad?”

“No.” Spock’s fingers sift lightly through Jim’s hair, and Jim can hear the smile in his voice. “Flattered, I believe.”

Jim straightens up then, looking at his companion. “Really?”

Spock is gazing at him fondly. “Indeed. There were several individuals in there who referred to me as your ‘boyfriend.’ I did not correct them.”

Jim couldn’t help a grin that splits his face at these words if he tried.

“And Jim,” Spock says, growing serious. “Whatever comments they might have made to you, they definitely don’t think of you as miserable anything. The concentration of envy in there is so strong that I could barely withstand it.” He pauses. “Most of it was aimed at myself for being with you.”

“Oh God,” Jim mutters. “Spock, I’m sorry. Those idiots, they don’t know anything.”

“Indeed. They do not know that Commander Starfleet asks for your tactical advice; that you have personal gratitude of T’Pau of Vulcan; that you are the most wanted person in the Klingon Empire – for a reason. Jim, you are light years away from these people. Justifying yourself before them seems... demeaning. Beneath you.”

“Spock...” Jim utters hoarsely. “I might be completely in love with you right now.”

Spock pulls himself up to his feet fluidly and offers Jim a hand. “Will you come home with me then?”

“Yeah.” Jim grins, dazedly, letting Spock haul him up to his feet. “Yeah. Anytime. Anything you want.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I would be more careful with your phrasing, Jim.”

Jim smirks, shaking his head, arms sliding around Spock’s waist and under his t-shirt. “I mean it,” he purrs into Spock’s ear, reveling in the way Spock shudders against him. “Look so hot in my clothes; maybe you can leave them on while—”

Spock shuts him up with a kiss, and Jim laughs through it, and then laughs some more listening to how strained Spock’s voice sounds as he arranges for a site-to-site transport.

Jim doesn’t look back once as the twirling white light seizes them.

  
\--

He wakes up at the crack of dawn, feeling slightly disoriented by the absence of the familiar vibration of the ship around him. Then, it comes rushing back to him. Shore leave. Earth. Reunion. Spock.

Jim turns his head and smiles, as he finds Spock sleeping peacefully beside him, chest rising and falling at precisely measured intervals, the usually neat hair ruffled and all over the place, body angled unmistakably toward Jim.

Jim knows he shouldn’t, knows Spock has earned his rest (and a part of Jim is immensely proud of being able to challenge the infamous Vulcan stamina), but he can’t help it. This, right here, is so new, and precious, and unbelievable that it’s simply not within him to resist the temptation to touch, to press, to nuzzle, and kiss. His body is still sizzling from the way Spock pounced on him last night, taking what has long been his and giving Jim a universe of pleasure in return, and yet Jim can’t help wanting more now, craving it with all his being. Spock makes him feel touch-starved and hungry, so, so hungry...

“Insatiable,” Spock murmurs, without opening his eyes.

Jim grins guiltily and kisses the soft lips, licking into the drowsy warmth of Spock’s mouth, teasing and playful, until Spock’s hands grip his arms and roll them over. Jim’s thighs fall open almost without his conscious thought, and Spock lands between them unerringly, seeking entrance. Jim shifts just a little instinctively, and they’re home, both of them, the sleepy-sweet glide and sloppy kisses, the slow climb of arousal and the ever-sharpening urgency.

“I love you,” Jim breathes, his head falling back helplessly as Spock nibbles at his throat, and they both moan.

“Jim,” Spock breathes out desperately.

Jim presses him in deeper stubbornly. “So damn much.”

Spock falls apart above him, pulling Jim under with him, and they both lose themselves within each other for countless, euphoric moments.

“I mean it,” Jim whispers what feels like an hour later, his skin tingling pleasantly everywhere they touch.

Spock lifts up his head and looks at Jim with the same voracious longing he stopped hiding ever since Jim said it the first time. Jim still can’t quite believe it’s there for him. Spock kisses him, and Jim can feel the unyielding tenacity of his response being branded permanently into his skin, an emotion so powerful that it humbles Jim, and so blazingly bright that it leaves no room for doubt.

Jim sighs dopily and drifts back to sleep, with Spock murmuring something softly in Vulcan against his shoulder.


End file.
